Silence in the Fire
by Believe4Ever
Summary: "I have feelings too. I am still human. All I want is to be loved, for myself and for my talent."
1. Chapter 1

**This is post series 3, so obvious spoilers. Reviews are greatly appreciated and help motivate me to write the next chapter.**

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_"Have you ever been in love? It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up a whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life… You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness. Nothing should be able to do that. Especially not love. I hate love." –Sandman_

Sherlock Holmes was a man of many faces. He could hide in plain sight and change his voice to suit any situation. He was someone who would plunge into a false relationship for the sake of a case and would go so far as to propose to the woman he was leading on if it could be used to his advantage. He was not one capable of emotion, as far as John Watson could tell. He may appear to use emotion, and it was quite possible that he was a child full of expression, but now he had grown cold and distant from people, John himself included.

It was just as well. John didn't want to get close to the man he calls his best friend ever again. He'd already punished him once with letting him believe he was dead for the better part of two years. When he returned he had seemed remorseful, seemed sad, regretful, and entirely human. He had been cheery and helpful through his wedding following. Laughing, joking, composing, being human. With the business with Magnussen he had seemed worried. Caring, anxious, sacrificial, human. After Mary died he had helped John through the grieving; fixing, mending, friendly, _human._

But since John began dating once more, signifying he was finally over his late wife, Sherlock had grown distant again. He would go on his adventures with his blogger, take cases, solve and enjoy the murders and mysteries, but he wouldn't indulge in crap tellie like he used to. He'd lock himself away in his mind palace more and more often. He grew as distant from John as he'd been when they'd first met, if not more.

It was rather starting to irritate John.

"Sherlock, get up," John called as he knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door. "Sherlock, we have a case. Lestrade said to meet us at the Yard in two hours."

"I'm up," his flatmate's muffled voice replied irritably. John nodded, assured that he was up and about and wandered back to the main room of their flat.

"Morning Billy," John greeted, nodding to the skull that sat on the mantel. "Quite a fine morning, isn't it? If only Sherlock would actually say two words to me." He paused as he picked up the newspaper amidst the clutter of chemistry equipment on the kitchen table. "No, he said two words to me already. Perhaps a third? Break the record?"

Billy, of course, didn't answer. It stared blankly at John who just nodded and went back to reading the paper, listening to Sherlock's sluggish movements in the next room followed by the occasional bitter yell for no apparent reason.

John shook his head and turned a page. "It's almost noon for God's sake. He shouldn't be such a child about having to wake up."

Finally Sherlock dragged himself into the living room, hair a disheveled mess and robe hanging lazily off his shoulders. He fell back into his chair and closed his eyes, pressing his steeped fingers to his lips.

"Oh no you don't," John grunted, walking over and forcing his friend's hands back down to his lap. Sherlock opened one eye, glaring annoyed. "We have a case, remember? You aren't going to go wandering in your mind palace in your robe and be a brat today. Lestrade needs your help and he isn't going to let you back in dressed in your pajamas so go get dressed and meet me outside in ten minutes. Got it?"

Sherlock's expression soured and he muttered something under his breath before standing, drawing himself up to full height until he was glowering down at John. He stepped past his friend swiftly, robe trailing behind him as he went back to his bedroom to change. John cursed to himself as he threw the newspaper down onto his own chair and left the flat. He stepped up to the curb and stuffed his hands into his pockets and waited.

"He is an absolute child," John muttered as he watched cars drive by and tried to ignore the other people walking by behind him. "Just for one day can he not stare at me like I plucked a cigarette from his mouth? What the hell did I even do in the first place? Honestly."

Sherlock stepped up next to John within two more minutes, dressed and bundled with his scarf pulled tightly around his neck and hands shoved into his pockets. Of course the coat collar was turned up. His hair was still messy and sticking up oddly in different places. John didn't even bother pointing it out for he was tired of feeling like the man's mother.

"Case?"

John looked over, eyebrows raised in astonishment at his friend's words. "Excuse me?"

"Case. What's the case?"

"Ah . . . Right." John turned back to staring straight across the street. "Lestrade didn't specify all the details but it's a murder. Just said a woman was murdered in her home and gave me the address. He said he'd fill in the rest of the details when we get there."

"Mm." Sherlock just gave a nod and stayed as he was, standing straight and avoiding John's eyes. The shorter man huffed and stepped out into the street a little, holding up a hand and calling for a taxi.

The vehicle pulled up to the curb and the duo got in. Sherlock settled against the window, discreetly positioning his body so he was as far away from John as he could get. John told the driver the address and sat back against the cushioned seat. He glanced over at his friend, frowning slightly before looking back out his window.

The ride was silent for about ten minutes before John turned toward his flatmate. "You can't keep doing this."

Sherlock didn't respond, nor did he react in any sense to John's sudden voice. He continued staring out the window as they passed over a bridge overlooking the water.

"You've barely said two words to me daily for two months now. More than two months, actually, if I'm remembering correctly. We're coming up on Mary's anniversary aren't we?"

His friend shifted at the comment but still said nothing. John's fingers curled in irritation and he had to fight the natural urge to shout at the man as he'd done constantly at the flat when this silent habit had begun.

"Ever since you helped me stop grieving over her you've suddenly stopped speaking to me. Is there a certain reason? Have I done something?" When, yet again there wasn't a reaction he grumbled. "Fine. Fine! Stay in your own little world and just ignore me. Just go back to your mind palace or wherever the hell you stay every day!"

John turned away, just in time to catch the driver watching them in the rearview mirror. When the driver realized that John noticed his staring he immediately turned his full attention back to the road but John still scowled.

"Oh, piss off."

The rest of the forty-minute ride was taken in silence. The second the car reached their destination Sherlock was getting out, even before the vehicle had come to a complete stop. John handed a couple notes to the driver angrily and rushed after Sherlock. He was getting rather tired of having to pay for the taxi rides.

Their destination was an elaborate mansion in Uxbridge. The outside was large and painted a dusty red as if giving the illusion it was an old brick building when in reality it was probably built only a couple years ago. The walkway to the elaborate front double doors was made of polished stone that caused their shoes to click-and-clack with every annoying step.

Upon entering the duo found that the front room was grand, which polished tiled floors built in with extravagant designs painted onto the tiles and lavish curtains hung open on the wide windows. There was a large staircase winding up to the next floor, where John found a few policemen trailing up the steps.

Sherlock's attention was, of course, immediately drawn up the spiraling staircase to which the police were gathered in a large room down the upstairs hall. It appeared to be a young girl's room, with the walls painted a pastel pink and porcelain dolls lining the shelves hanging on the walls. For half a moment John feared that the murder was of the girl who stayed in the room but the fears dissipated when he saw the body.

"Thirty-three year old woman, blunt head trauma," Lestrade summed up as he approached the two of them. "Hired nanny for the daughter of Richard Bentinck."

"The millionaire?" John questioned. It would certainly explain the extravagancy of the mansion.

"The very one. He's very distraught about her passing . . ."

"Mind if I take a look?"

John didn't even wait for confirmation as he brushed past the forensics workers and crouched down beside her. He was careful to touch the woman as little and briefly as he could manage while still examining the body thoroughly. After gently parting her short honey colored hair he was able to see the bloody wound on the right side of her skull, just beyond her temple. Gently pressing around the blood, he found the surrounding skull had shattered. He was just about to stand when he noticed the strange way her head was tilted, as if she purposely turned her head to land on the floor. He carefully lifted the front of her face and was astonished to find that the area over her left cheekbone had a disgusting black-and-blue bruise. When he touched it tenderly he could feel shattered bone fragments shift around under the flesh.

"Definitely more than a simple head trauma," John informed as he stood. He stepped back as Sherlock took his place in examining the cadaver.

The DI just looked confused. "What? How can it be a _complex _head trauma?"

"The woman was already on the ground when she got hit. Her left cheekbone is crushed like it had been violently pressed against a flat surface. Probably the floor. Something hit the back of her skull hard enough to shatter her skull and have enough force to crush the cheekbone. No average bloke can do this. Probably looking for a burly man, job lifting heavy things?"

Sherlock stood and turned toward the DI. "Lestrade, why did you call me? John's explanation is sound and after questioning the young girl who stays in this room I'm sure she could tell you who the murderer looks like. I'm positive that even _you _could get through this without my assistance."

"Ah, well, it's not just the murder . . ." Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and glanced up at Sherlock, who returned the look with a frown.

"What?"

"The girl, Lucy Bentinck, was . . . kidnapped last night. We don't know who would've gone so far to take the kid or where they would be keeping her."

Sherlock's eyes widened even just a fraction, not enough to show panic but enough to show that he was starting to become skittish. "I said no kidnapping cases."

"I need you on this Sherlock. We can't find a trace."

"I said I didn't want to be involved in anymore kidnappings!"

The detective stormed out, already turning his collar back up and heading for the stairs. John gritted his teeth, fuming, and stomped out after him. Before Sherlock could even reach the banister, John was grabbing his arm and dragging him into an empty side room. The new room was bland with white sheets on the bed, drawn grey curtains, and no decorations on the wall aside from a simple rectangular mirror hanging behind Sherlock.

"What?" the tall man cried as he wrenched out of his friend's grip. He stopped short when he saw John's furious countenance and aggressive body language. "What?" he asked again, this time more exasperated than before.

"What the _hell _wrong with you?!"

"Excuse me?"

"You have been such an _ass _for the past month! You've been shutting me out and clambering away into your 'mind palace' and today you've managed to say more words to me than you have the past two weeks. Congratulations! And now you're denying a perfectly interesting case from Lestrade simply because a girl was kidnapped? What happened that I didn't realize that changed you into someone more idiotic than the one I first met!"

"It doesn't matter. I don't wish to be put on the case."

"And why not?" John didn't hide the annoyance in his voice, nor did he bother to lower his volume.

"Because the last time I took on a kidnapping case it resulted in my going into hiding for two years."

John frowned. "That's what this is about? Moriarty? You're afraid he'll be back? Sherlock, he's dead."

"We thought that before, didn't we?"

"You shot him, it was in the middle of the head, and I checked his pulse myself. He's dead."

Sherlock licked his lips and gave John a fixed stare. "I'm not taking the case." He shoved John aside, causing the smaller man to stumble a bit, and opened the door. "Feel free to tell as you wish to Lestrade, but I'm going back to Baker Street. You can decide if you're going to sleep there or spend a night at Harry's again."

The detective left, leaving John to stand dumbfounded behind him. He let out a frustrated sigh and left without telling Lestrade anything else. He knew that the DI would just text Sherlock later, asking about the case once more which would do nothing but make him even bitterer than he already is.

John decided he would walk back to Baker Street rather than take a taxi when he finally got back to London. For now he would just take the tube, as it was cheaper and would take longer, thereby giving him time to think to himself and also give Sherlock time to calm down after their argument. He made his way down the sidewalk, weaving in between other pedestrians and couples who were holding hands and showing affection. He averted his eyes, trying his absolute best to not let Mary enter his mind.

He finally got a ride onto the bus after having to wait for thirty minutes at the stop. Generally passengers were quiet but there were a couple obnoxious teenagers laughing and talking loudly towards the back of the bus. John shot them a dirty look as he took his seat, hoping that it'd be enough to get them to quiet down, but they kept on with their same volume.

There was a boy wearing a black baseball cap and a denim jacket who seemed to be telling an array of raunchy jokes. Next to him was a girl with coarse black hair that was tied off awkwardly into a shaking ponytail that waved around her head like a flag. Sitting across the aisle was another boy with bleached blonde hair so bright that it was practically white who had his feet kicked up over the back of the seat in front of him.

After ten minutes of being unable to clear a single thought from his mind, John turned around suddenly and shouted, "Oi!"

The teenage girl with the thick black hair looked over, features scrunched into a scowl. "What do you want old man?"

John raised his eyebrows. Was this girl serious? Was she actually insulting someone who hadn't even reached middle-age? He drummed his fingers against the stop of the seat in front of him irritably. "You should respect those older than you, even if they happen to not be an elderly person."

"Nah, I think she's got you pegged," the boy with the bleached hair laughed in response, his Scottish accent shining through. "You're just an old man who can't appreciate the younger culture."

"Or maybe you're a bunch of obnoxious brats who don't know common public decency. Just keep your voice down, will you?"

John turned back around and rubbed his forehead. Everything was annoying him today and the last thing he needed were some loud foul-mouthed teenagers to give him a headache for the next hour. The kids didn't listen, of course, and may have even gotten louder since his confrontation, but he managed to keep his mouth shut for another twenty minutes when they finally got off at a stop. The rest of the ride was relieving and quiet, allowing John to clear his head more effectively.

_Why has Sherlock been so apprehensive lately? Why so on edge? And what the hell did I do to get him so angry at me? And the case, why is he refusing kidnapping cases so firmly? When did this start? _The medic thought further for a couple moments. _Had Sherlock distinctly told Lestrade? Greg had seemed hesitant to tell Sherlock about it . . ._

John frowned, his expression quickly escalating into a bitter scowl. Lestrade had known! He had known about this strange aversion to kidnappings and yet he'd never informed John! No wonder Sherlock had always quickly waved off anything to do with a girl getting snatched up a man mysteriously disappearing, claiming they were simply boring despite the strange circumstances. Why hadn't Sherlock trusted him enough to let him know of something so simple?

_He probably knew I'd react like this, _John thought reasonably. It would make sense. He reacted this much so he probably would've reacted just as much if Sherlock had told him directly. John rubbed his head. He didn't know what he was supposed to say to Sherlock, whenever he got back to Baker Street.

The bus ride ended up taking longer than John expected and the sun was already beginning to set by the time he stepped off, a few blocks away from Baker Street. He hadn't eaten since that morning when he'd had an early, lonely lunch while Sherlock slept. He contemplated stopping at Angelo's to grab a bite but decided that if Sherlock wasn't going to take this case, and most like sulk around like a baby like he always did when he got upset, he shouldn't spend their money so easily.

Still, John wasn't quite ready to face his flatmate and he decided to take a small detour, going through back alleys and taking the quieter roads that would result in a longer route as well. It was starting to get even just a little quieter, with most people going home for their supper or finally getting away from the rural work they had completed that day. It was so rare to find such a peaceful moment when working with Sherlock Holmes, even if he wasn't speaking.

That silence was shattered by a sudden gunshot, so close that John instinctually dropped to the ground and tries to curl up, making himself as small as possible.

When a second shot didn't come, John tried to remember in what direction the shot came from. He carefully crawled upon the rough ground, small pebbles or chipped ground digging into his hands. As he peered round, he saw a man with his gun raised toward the air, but it was awkward, as though he had meant to shoot something else but decided to change direction at the last moment.

The man lowered the ground and rubbed his forehead. He had a clear tan complexion and smooth black hair. His eyes were a little crazed, as though he'd just finished hunting a large animal, and tears rimmed around them.

"I want to do this," the man whispered. He was sitting on the ground now, head hung and back hunched over and gun still gleaming in the low moonlight. "I really want to do this . . ."

John was watching from around the corner, extremely wary since he'd heard the gunshot just moments ago. He kept eyeing the gun, wondering what exactly this man was talking about. He wondered if perhaps the man was a bit mad.

_I could attempt reasoning with him, _John thought as he slowly began to step out from behind the wall. It would have to be really careful so as to not startle him . . .

"I will do this," the man muttered. He gave a nod, so subtle that John wasn't even sure if he actually had. All John knew was that within the span of one moment the man had brought up the gun and pressed the barrel to his chest, over his heart, and pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was slightly muffled but still loud and echoing among the night air.

It was surreal and shocking, sending tingling adrenaline shooting through John's veins. The moment the man's body hit the ground, the doctor was running over. Blood was pounding in his ears and he felt his instincts take everything over. His eyes were wide as he pressed his hands against the wound. Blood oozed from the man's flesh and coated John's hands like gloves, the color glistening sickeningly bright in the low light.

This was the last thing John had expected. He thought perhaps this man had been planning a murder, or was going to rob someone and threaten them with a gun. He'd never even considered this man would . . . John supposed that's what he got from working with Sherlock Holmes. Everything was murder and motive but never about ending one's life.

It was quite strange how the man had shot his chest rather than his head. If he'd shot himself in the temple like any normal person, it'd be instant death and nearly no pain because he'd already be gone. Did that mean that this man had been having a little bit of doubts and maybe hoped that someone would save him?

John struggled to take his phone out of his pocket. His fingers were slick with blood and smeared across the screen as he tried to scroll through his contacts until he was finally able to dial Sherlock's number. Like how he was trying to save this man, it was instincts to call Sherlock first.

Voicemail.

"Dammit Sherlock!" John screamed into the phone as he got the voicemail. "I understand that you're upset about me but quit being the arse in the situation and _call Lestrade!_"

He hung up and dialed the DI's number one handed as he continued applying pressure to the wound. His own heart was beating faster than he could remember. This was the most adrenaline he had gotten since Moriarty had been alive, but this time it was accompanied with an overwhelming fear that seemed to be worse than he remembered it had been when Moriarty had . . .

"John?" he heart Greg ask, obviously surprised.

"I need an ambulance," John interjected quickly as he cradled the phone between his shoulder and ear. The blood from the scream drooled into his ear, causing shivers to lick down his back.

"What? What's happened? Is Sherlock alright?"

"Yeah, he's _fine _besides he won't pick up his phone!" John licked his lips nervously and checked for a pulse on the man. It was there, but it was weak and failing. He knew he couldn't do proper CPR because that would just cause more blood to flow. Why couldn't John _do _anything? "I'm by Craven Street, out back by The Commonwealth Kitchen. I need an ambulance now!"

"Yes but why—"

"_Now, Greg!_" John let the phone slip from his shoulder and he pressed his full weight onto the bullet wound. There was so much blood and it was coated up to his arms and smeared on his pants, drenched around the bottom half because he was kneeling in a pool of it. He pressed two fingers to the carotid artery and felt his face drain when there was no longer a pulse to find.

The man's face had drawn pale and his eyes were rolled back into his head. Blood was running all over his chest but John had enough experience as a doctor to know that there wasn't anything he could do now. The bullet has most likely pierced the heart itself, even if it wasn't a bad wound; enough blood had drained both out of the body and likely into the body itself. John couldn't do anything . . .

It was ten minutes later that he heard sirens wailing and Lestrade came running down the alley towards him, along with Sherlock right at his tail. John's flatmate came to an abrupt stop with wide eyes when he saw John, slick with blood and a defeated look upon his face.

"He's dead," the army doctor whispered, giving a faint nod to the man lying a foot beside him. "He's dead . . ."

Lestrade looked at him, eyes reflecting the look of defeat and almost relief, knowing that both him and Sherlock weren't the ones who had needed the ambulance. Paramedics arrived by that point and were getting on the phone with a coroner. One of them asked John if any of the blood was his own, to which John just shook his head numbly.

"He's dead," John whispered again. "It's all he's . . . He's dead . . ."

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**A lot has happened, and reviews are needed to keep me motivated for writing more.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Onto the next chapter. Surprisingly, this one took less time to write even though it's been a longer absence.**

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Sherlock frowned as he watched his flatmate down the hall. John was sitting in the waiting room of St. Bartholomew's hospital, as the ambulance had brought him there to double check he didn't have injuries despite his protests. When he was finally cleared to go home, he just took a seat in the waiting room along with the other worried family members of other injured patients in the hospital. That had been hours ago, and now that it was almost midnight, there was only a pair of elderly women in the back of the room, quietly reading books and looking half asleep.

Sherlock had stayed at the hospital the entire time, waiting to take John home, but by now it seemed that his friend didn't want to leave. He'd just sit in that uncomfortable chair and stare down at his hands, which were still stained a pale pink as the blood's color hadn't come out with the wash.

"John," the detective sighed as he finally walked over. "We must get home."

"You can go. I'll catch up."

"I'm not going to leave you here. And you can't stay here in this hospital. You need to get home and rest."

John looked up, features set in a hard, menacing glower. "Why? Will I feel better after I sleep? I just saw a man take his own life, Sherlock. I can't simply get over that."

"You didn't even know the man! You saw people die left and right in Afghanistan! How is that any different?"

"Soldiers were killing soldiers. They weren't turning their guns on themselves and firing!"

"Why should that make any difference? It's just death, John. Everyone dies. Some people decide to go sooner than others. It shouldn't matter to you if he's some random man on the street!"

"It does matter to me!"

One of the women jolted awake out of her half-sleeping state, startled at John's suddenly loud voice. Sherlock glanced at her before turning back to John.

"Don't create a scene," the detective murmured. "You're tired and you should go home."

"I don't _want _to go home, Sherlock!"

"Then I'll take you to Harry's! I just need to make sure that you're going somewhere you can get good rest!"

"As if you even _care_! Today you've said more to me than you have in the past few months! You ignored my phone call while a man was dying before me and you expect that I can just sleep off something like that! You know absolutely _nothing _about taking care of another human being!"

"I thought we had established this much!"

"Yes but I still can't believe you can be such an ass after what's happened!"

"Sirs!" A nurse's sharp voice cut off the both of them. "Can you please take this outside? You are disturbing those waiting here."

"Yes, we were just leaving," Sherlock assured her as he took a hold of John's wrist and tried to lead him outside. The shorter man fought his grip. "John!" Sherlock glared at his friend before John gave a sigh and stubbornly followed him out.

The moment they were out into the cold night air, John wrenched his hand out of Sherlock's grip and started heading down the street, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

"You're going the wrong way," Sherlock called after him.

"I told you, I'm not going home!"

"Then where are you planning to go? A hotel? Sleep in the streets? You need a proper place to sleep, John!"

"Why do you _care?_" John turned around, looking frustrated but mostly questioning. "You haven't seemed to care even the slightest about me since I got over Mary. Why? Do you want me to hold onto her memory and cry every night just so that you can be there to comfort me like some superhero?"

"It's not like that, John."

"Then what? Why have you been ignoring me when I talk to you or refusing to talk to me or denying cases that you would've jumped on before? Why are you being different? Why aren't you the man I moved in with?!"

Sherlock sucked in a breath but offered no reply to any of his questions.

"Say something then!"

Sherlock bit his lip and looked down. John gave another groan of exasperation before turning away.

"I just want to make sure nothing will happen to you again tonight," Sherlock mumbled. John hunched over, guilt rolling down his chest despite his anger he was feeling toward his friend.

"Fine," John growled. "I'll go back."

The two began walking down the street. John immediately denied taking a cab, claiming that he wanted the fresh air. Sherlock walked just as silently as his assistant, looking up at the stars as they kept their gradual pace. Stars seemed to be one of the few things that amazed the detective; the fact that out there, past their tiny planet's atmosphere, is a vastness so great that the distance between two of these simple lights was greater than the circumference of their planet. There was a reason he chose not to know about the solar system and it was because there were some things he'd rather not understand.

"Why does it bother you?" Sherlock asked finally. After a short moment with no answer, he looked down at his friend who continued to stare in front of him blankly. "John, I'm attempting to talk for once."

"Why does what bother me?" John sighed.

"The man's death."

The ex-soldier's body stiffened but he kept his solemn expression. "He died in front of me."

"A lot of people died in front of you. In the war you've killed plenty, and you've seen numerous in our adventures."

"Including you."

Sherlock came to an abrupt stop to which John continued walking without a second glance. "That's what this is about?" the detective inquired quietly.

"Of course it is. It's about you, isn't it?"

Sherlock grabbed his friend's hand, bringing him to a standstill. "John, I'm being serious."

"And so am I!" He turned, forcing anger to mask the torment of emotions that were battling in his chest. "It's always you. It's always about you. You're always the center of everything! You're the reason my wife is dead; you're the reason I had nightmares; you're the reason I need this rush of adrenaline every single day; and you're the reason why I couldn't trust anyone to get close to me for two years after I thought you were dead!" John inhaled sharply, his eyes burning from tears pressuring to fill his eyes but he blinked them away furiously.

Sherlock stared at his friend with a countenance of submissive guilt. "That was an act."

"But you let me grieve. For two years I thought you were dead." John's voice was getting shaky as he looked at his friend with hard eyes. "I had to _watch_ you. And . . . when you came back I thought it was a hallucination, and that it wasn't real and I kept waiting to wake up. Then I didn't and I knew you were back." He swallowed and averted his gaze. "I've had to watch friends and colleagues die and even my _wife_ and yet . . . nothing is worse than watching a best friend choose to die. Watching anyone choose to die is terrible and even if I didn't know that man I only thought of _that day._"

Sherlock lifted his head and exhaled slowly. "I didn't mean to . . . traumatize you."

"I'm not bloody traumatized. I'm hurt at the fact you think you can't share with me what's been bothering you. You keep your feelings bottled up like you can't accept someone caring for you or wanting to know what's going on in that psychotic brain of yours. As your friend I just want to know why you've changed."

"I haven't changed John."

"Yes you have! How many times do I have to shout it at you before you'll let this act give? You're Sherlock Holmes, the man who will jump off a blood building for . . ." John trailed off and he turned back around. "For your work." He gave a sigh and shook his head. "Of course. Of course! That whole act was to get rid of Moriarty. Must have slipped my mind. I must've deceived myself and thought that it was perfectly rational to think that I, for some ungodly reason, was why you jumped."

Sherlock licked his lips and looked down. He had told no one, not even his brother, of Moriarty's threat. No one knew of his pressure points that he had been threatened with, nor will they ever know.

"Don't expect me to talk again," John growled as he continued walking once more. Sherlock just gave a numb nod and followed his flatmate down the empty street.

It took half an hour longer to walk back home than it would have if they had taken a cab. By then John was practically stumbling in and out of sleep but every time Sherlock attempted to assist him in getting up to his room, the soldier shrugged him off, muttering about how he was fine. When John finally did make it to his room, he collapsed onto his bed, snuggling under the covers without bothering to even shed off his coat, and sank into slumber.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was still wide awake and took to the kitchen to begin a new experiment. Perhaps he'd work on the bit with the mouse trap. Although he couldn't remember where it was he had hidden it last week, so he'd just have to find something else to do. His eyes wandered back to John's chair.

It was foolish to have sentiment attached to an inanimate object. At least with a person it was something of value, something that can add to your life, even if it was in insignificant amounts. However with something that wasn't alive, such as the chair, you would imagine that it wouldn't matter. But Sherlock just felt a strange pain in his chest when he looked at it. He recognized the pain, though; it was the same as when John had gotten married and every time he'd even glanced at the chair it caused him to feel . . . what was the phrase? 'Like there was a hole in his chest.'

"If only there was a way to crack open the brain and fix the defects that develop," Sherlock muttered as he tapped his skull with the scalpel he had lying on the counter. "Cut apart the limbic system, extract all need for emotion. A proper detective has no attachments. Like a machine." He set down the instrument and took up pacing around the flat.

He knew he wouldn't ever do such a thing, even if there was a way to get a safe procedure completed. Emotion was something that was needed in all human species. Perhaps the need for love, guilt, and sadness was unneeded. And sentiment. It only caused problems and would lead to an uneasy end for most. God knows it was for Mary.

Sherlock cringed at the thought of his friend's late wife. He shook his head and continued with his uneasy walking. For once he found himself wishing that he was tired enough to sleep. He didn't want to have to delve back into his memories and feel the guilt that had been plaguing him for nearly a year. He just wanted to forget all of it. Often times he'd wished that John had never gotten married, but then he would realize that it sounded selfish. That didn't mean that he wouldn't take it back, though.

It was about three in the morning when Sherlock started hearing the shouts. They were faint and muffled, but very distinctively John's. The detective looked towards the exit into the stairwell for just a moment before calmly picking up his violin and walking to his friend's room.

John was in bed, covers kicked off of him during sleep and sweat rolling down his temples. His face was scrunched into an expression of distress and he kept shouting garbled words or sometimes just a noise to shout. Sherlock grimaced at seeing his friend having the nightmare, but quickly pressed his bow to the strings of the violin and began playing.

The notes were smooth and almost melancholy, but something that could be danced to. The notes had been burned into Sherlock's mind for so long that he didn't think he could ever forget it. He'd taken a long time to compose it and the only time he'd performed it for an audience—at least, a conscious audience—had been at his best friend's wedding. Now he used it as a lullaby to soothe his friend in the night during one of his nightmares. As usual, John relaxed at the tune until he was sleeping peacefully.

Sherlock took a seat in the chair at John's desk, used to the nightmare arising again in half an hour. After that they would stay away and he would be able to go back to his experiments. The detective set down the violin on the desk and rested his head on his propped up hand. John's steady breathing was lulling, almost like a metronome or a clock ticking off the seconds they spend alive. Sherlock felt his eyes grow heavy until he was nodding off himself.

The next morning Sherlock was awoken by a startled yell, which he mimicked as he was jerked out of his dreamless slumber.

"What are you doing in here?" John demanded, sitting up and staring at his friend in bewilderment.

"I was making sure you wouldn't have a nightmare," Sherlock answered with a yawn as he stood up.

"Nightmare?"

"Yes. You were having one last night so I came in and played my violin to calm you down."

"You play your violin to stop my bad dreams?"

"Yes. I've been doing this since you moved in."

"What?"

"When you first moved in you'd have nightmares about Afghanistan and then they started disappearing and on occasion there'd be one about Moriarty. After Mary . . . passed away you began having the nightmares more frequently so I began playing for you once more."

John was still staring disbelievingly. "So you fell asleep in here?"

"I grew drowsy, I suppose. It won't happen again." Sherlock headed for the door.

"Well . . . thank you, I suppose."

The detective nodded without slowing as he left.

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**Reviews are greatly appreciated to know how well this is turning out.**


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